Dreamer (Highland Treasure Trilogy)
Page 6
Catherine first thought it was a cough. Then she feared that a spell might be coming on the ailing woman. But as the dowager continued to gasp for precious breaths, Catherine realized that the old woman was laughing at her.
Absolutely appalled, Catherine watched Lady Anne’s shoulders begin to shake as a tear ran down the side of her pale, wrinkled face. Feeling her cheeks flush hot with embarrassment, Catherine had no doubt whatsoever that she was indeed an object of derision for the dowager.
“‘Tis a very great pleasure meeting you, too, m’lady,” Catherine put in, trying to keep her tone civil. “And may I ask what I have done to be the source of such amusement for your ladyship?”
The dowager held up a bony hand as her laugh turned into a fairly credible sounding cough. She turned her face to the side, genuinely struggling to catch her breath. The thought of waiting for the others to come to the dowager’s aid never entered her mind, and Catherine quickly slipped a steady hand behind the frail woman’s back and moved her into a sitting position. It took only an instant to reach behind the old woman and prop her up with a couple of the down-filled pillows.
It still took a few more moments and a sip of some greenish liquid that Susan brought in a cup before Lady Anne’s breathing became a bit less labored. Backing up a half a step, Catherine stood and waited until the dowager became calm again. Taking hold of Susan’s wrist with one hand, the frowning older woman turned her gaze on Catherine, and raised an accusing finger in the newcomer’s direction.
“You might as well know now, Catherine Percy. You will never do!”
She didn’t have to ask. It was clear that dowager was referring to her son, the earl. Catherine clasped her hands tightly before her before looking up again and meeting the other woman’s gaze. She had been talked to honestly and directly.
“And would you throw another fit if I were to tell you that I find your words a blessing? That I have no intention of becoming your daughter-in-law?”
“You lie.”
“Let me burn in hell if I do.”
The frown on the dowager’s face slowly disappeared, replaced by the hint of an amusement around her gray eyes.
“Leave us.”
Catherine had already taken a step back before she realized that the ailing woman’s words were not directed at her. Without a word, Susan and the two women in waiting slipped out of the chamber, closing the door behind them.
“That worthless messenger my son sent failed to tell me that the earl had not married the Crawford wench as he had planned. The fool just said that the master had married and that the new countess was coming.”
Catherine could see that Ellen’s and Lady Anne’s lack of affection was mutual.
“And Susan also tells me that you are the spinster daughter of that dear, restless Nichola Erskine.”
“Nichola Percy,” Catherine said. “She took my father’s name when they wed.”
“Aye, of course,” she snapped. “I might be dying, young woman, but I’m not feeble-minded.”
When Catherine said nothing, Lady Anne continued.
“Although I haven’t seen her for years, I still remember her quite well. She was a bonny lass, that Nichola Erskine, though far too spirited for her own good. Smart as a whip, too. But it doesn’t appear you have inherited much from her.” Catherine blushed in spite of herself as the dowager’s gray eyes again scanned her hair, her face, her attire. “Och! A shame, really, that you are not at all like her.”
Catherine’s eyes flashed. “If I may be so bold as to correct you, m’lady. Contrary to what you just said, there are many who believe I’ve been blessed with my mother’s talent for languages and her patience for learning, in general. And in spite of the world’s overwrought regard for things as trifling as someone’s looks, my mother’s claim to fame in England has been her great learning. And the desire to teach what we have learned is a passion that we also share.”
Catherine paused, trying to decide if she was being a bit snappish. Nay, she decided, just informative.
“Very well, my pert young mistress. I see you do have something of her in you. But I know nothing of this ‘learning’ business. Your conduct appears to me to be temper...and more than a wee bit of willfulness.” She looked hard at Catherine’s face. “Come closer.”
Catherine stared, confused about the nature of the order.
“Pick up that wick lamp and come here beside me.”
Silently, Catherine did as she was told.
“Sit.”
Carefully, Catherine lowered herself onto the edge of the bed.
“Ah! I see it now,” the dowager whispered, lifting her head with effort off the pillow and staring keenly into Catherine’s face. “You have her eyes, lass. Those same eyes of midnight blue.” She leaned back with a loud sigh. “Praise heaven for that, at least. There is hope, after all.”
Catherine was now totally perplexed by the old woman. Putting the wick lamp down on the small table beside the bed, Catherine turned her attention back to the sickbed. Her voice sounded unsteady even to her own ears. “Hope for what?”
“For making you into a countess, Catherine Percy. For getting John to abide by his vows as well as beget an...” She abruptly stopped mid-sentence and looked into Catherine’s face. “Was there a priest present when you two wed?”
“Aye, m’lady. But I was forced--”
“A priest, that’s good! Now, I know there has been no four days of waiting, but did you two consummate the marriage?”
“Nay, m’lady. And if I have my way...”
“Och, the devil take him! That’s no good at all!”
The dowager coughed for the first time since the two of them were left alone. Following Susan’s practice, Catherine moved to the other side of the bed and brought a cup to the ailing woman’s lips. The dowager took a sip and then pushed aside the foul smelling brew. It occurred to Catherine that the old woman suddenly seemed to have no time for being ill...never mind dying.
“Knowing my condition, my son will not stay away for more than a few days at a time. So he’ll be back. And soon. I’ll have Susan move you into his chamber. And we must do something about the way you...”
“I’m quite happy about where I’ve been placed, m’lady.”
“Are you, mistress?” the dowager said, one eyebrow shooting up in surprise.
“Aye,” Catherine replied, looking intently at the woman. “I have no intention of moving.”
“Is that so? Well, that room was intended as an insult when we thought you were that slattern, Ellen Crawford. ‘Twas never meant to be a sanctuary for Nichola Erskine’s daughter.”
“Still, m’lady. I can assure you...”
“You can assure me of what?” Once again the gray eyes flashed with intelligence and challenge. “The only thing I want you to assure me of is a healthy bairn...a good, strong lad for the earl to raise as an heir.”
“Really, Lady Anne...”
“D’ye really think you’d be happy living in that drafty little mouse hole, while your husband lives in the grandest of chambers, just across the keep? And will it make you happy to fast quietly in your chamber while he brings mistresses from court to sit in your place beside him in the Great Hall? To please him in his bed?” Lady Anne hitched an eyebrow at her. “Are you certain you’re Nichola Erskine’s daughter?”
Catherine’s back stiffened at her words, but she chose not to respond to the final barb. “I have no intention of becoming either a laughingstock or a martyr, m’lady. But I do intend to send a letter to the Pope himself, requesting an annulment of this travesty of a marriage. And I have grounds for such a request, since that priest and the saints above were witnesses to the fact that I was forced to take my vows. There were no contracts of betrothal...no reading of the banns...” She felt the heat rise in her face. “And there was no consummation! That...”
“You are a silly lass, aren’t you? And a dreamer, at that!”
“Lady Anne, I have no wish to stay wed to
your son!”
“‘Tis not becoming to see Nichola’s daughter play the fool!”
It was getting more difficult by the moment just to stand there and take the dowager’s insults. But walking out on an ailing woman would serve no purpose. Lady Anne had some prior connection with her mother, and Catherine could use at least one ally here at Balvenie Castle. “Lady Anne, I understand you are concerned about your son, and the future of your family, but...”
“Are you so simple? So naive? Are you a fool, after all, lass?”
“Is there some purpose in calling me names?”
“Aye, there is! And if you’ll give me a few more moments, I’ll come up with more.”
Catherine’s hands were fisted at her sides, but she forced them open, laying them flat on the bedclothes as she tried to calm her temper. “M’lady, I still...”
“‘Tis you, child! Don’t you understand? You are the one I’m thinking of, now!” Lady Anne untangled one hand from her rosary and reached over, placing it on Catherine’s. “You! The one with no dowry. The one whose home now belongs to that baboon, Henry of England. You, lass, the one with a price on her head!”
Lady Anne motioned toward the cup, and Catherine brought it again to her lips. The old woman began to take a sip, then curled up her lip in distaste and pushed the cup away.
“I want you to tell me what cardinal, what bishop...what lowly curate even...will go for you to the pope? None that I know. I’m telling you, Catherine, you wouldn’t be able to get even a poor-mouthed friar, his bony arse showing through a threadbare robe, to take such a frivolous document to Rome.”
“Everything you say, about my family, my worth...‘tis true for one who is in search of a husband.” Catherine heard the sound of her voice rising in the stuffy room, but she had no desire to restrain it. She would get her point across, if she had to shout it from the towers. “But the truth is that I have no need for one and never wanted one. I have always desired a life of study, and I would be quite prepared to retire to some convent if I cannot open a school, as my mother wrote to you and the earl. So even if what you say is true--about no one being willing to carry my request to Rome--I shall still defy your son’s wishes. I shall never be a wife. If I have to lock myself in that chamber that you’ve assigned me until the Lord sees fit to take my spirit, I’ll stay there until the earl of Athol forgets he even made that horrible mistake.”
There was that rasping, airless sound again. That mortifying croak of a laugh no doubt intended to make Catherine feel a bit insecure in her position.
“Well, my dear. You are in for a lesson, and it won’t be in Greek, I’m quite certain. But it will surely prove more useful to you than anything the Ancients have to teach you.”
“And may I ask what this lesson might be?”
As Catherine stared at the dowager, the older woman’s eyes glistened with a light that suddenly made her look much younger in age. “Nay, lass, you may not ask anything more. Now be on your way, and send those useless women back.”
Lady Anne closed her eyes, dismissing Catherine, who turned away from the bed. As she crossed the chamber, she considered the dowager’s last words. She was almost to the door when the raspy voice again cut through the darkness.
“Catherine!”
“Aye, m’lady?”
“I take back what I said before. You may do, after all!”
CHAPTER 6
He knew it. It was just a matter of perseverance.
John Stewart watched his bride slip quietly into the darkened Great Hall. She would not see him sitting in the shadows by the wall, he was quite certain of that. Only the flickering light of the dying fire behind the dais illuminated the Hall, and he smiled as she directed a quick and somewhat nervous glance toward the empty laird’s seat. Two dozen men were sleeping on the benches, but none even stirred when one of the dogs lifted his head and growled at the intruder before yawning and laying his head down again.
She turned and hurried into the passage leading toward the kitchens.
Well, she would find little to sustain her there, Athol thought. He’d made certain of that earlier, directing the cook and the steward to lock away everything after the meal was cleared from the long trestle tables. And she was not to be fed. That had been his command. If she did not find his company--or for that matter, the company of his people--good enough to join them down in the Hall for meals, then she could damn well starve.
He’d arrived at Balvenie Castle before midday yesterday, and this was the first time she had stepped out of her bedchamber, ignoring all invitations.
Glancing in the direction that she’d disappeared, he told himself that she’d be back. He was certain of that. But as the moments passed, the earl became a bit uneasy. Though the cook and the serving folk who slept in the kitchens were, for the most part, an amiable lot, Athol couldn’t imagine they were, as a whole, very fond of this haughty, reclusive newcomer. Nay, he thought, sitting back and waiting. None would lay a hand on her.
John Stewart had, at first, been surprised that his ailing mother had placed his bride in the drafty old east section of the keep. This western section of the castle, where he had his own Great Chamber, had been rebuilt by his grandfather, and though a bit old-fashioned, it was far more comfortable than the crumbling buildings where Catherine had been deposited. In fact, he was even more surprised that the newcomer hadn’t been chained to his bed, knowing his mother’s obsession with him begetting an heir.
Well, it was time to do just that. By next summer, he could have a bairn bouncing on his knee.
The movement by the door drew his eyes. As he knew she would, Catherine entered the Hall again, bending to pat a dog’s head before moving quietly from table to table, looking for food.
*****
Catherine pressed the heel of her hand against her growling belly. She’d thought Balvenie Castle would hold much worse torment than an empty stomach, but this was bad enough.
Jean had been very apologetic when she’d come to Catherine’s chamber with no supper last night, but she simply couldn’t defy the earl’s wishes. Catherine knew that he had come. How could she not? With all the ruckus he and his men had raised in the courtyard earlier, there was no ignoring him. And knowing he was here had stiffened her will to rebel. He wanted a wife? Well, let him get one elsewhere. He wouldn’t have her. Just as she’d told Lady Anne, she would stay locked away as long as she must--until such time as he forgot that she even existed.
But she still needed to survive. So now, with the castle silent and sleeping, she had decided to venture out and collect water and food. And if there were an opportunity for escape, she would take it.
But nay, the woven iron bands of the portcullis cut off any chance of disappearing beyond the curtain wall into the Scottish night.
And her foray into the kitchen had been fruitless, as well. The expansive room, dominated by a huge double-arched hearth, had been crowded with sleeping bodies. Feeling her way back through the dark to the Great Hall, she had been very careful not to step on any sleeping dogs, nor on any tartan-wrapped warriors, either.
Catherine moved stealthily along the trestle tables. From the fading light of the fireplace, she could see only a half dozen bowls and a ewer or two remaining out. Remnants of the night’s drinking, she realized, picking up an empty bowl and sniffing it. And there was nothing of dinner itself, as far as she could tell.
Anxiety joining with the hunger already gnawing at her stomach, Catherine took a deep breath and tried to stop her knees from trembling. She wiped her wet palms on her dress beneath her cloak and reminded herself that she was no thief.
Even the dogs had a right to search for food.
*****
John watched her reach for a ewer sitting beside the ear of the warrior lying on the next trestle table. The container was empty; he’d made sure of that himself. And her disappointment with that discovery showed up as she pushed back the cloak’s hood from her head and brought a hand to her brow.
And then she turned fully in his direction. Athol ceased to breathe. Those eyes. How could he have forgotten those eyes, so dark in this light, but so beautiful. She was staring at him--or rather, at the food on the bread trencher in front of him. Come a bit closer, he thought. Let me see the blue of those eyes.
Catherine took a hesitant step toward him and stopped again. She pushed her cloak back over her shoulders, and his eyes wandered over the ample curves of her shapely body. Suddenly, his mind became engulfed with memories of her in his bed. His hand on the silky skin of her hip. The way she’d moaned against his lips. The perfect fit of her breast in his palm. The way she had risen to the touch of his fingertips on her belly.
He should have known immediately that she wasn’t the perpetually overeager Ellen Crawford. Nay, he admitted silently, from the first moment he’d climbed in that bed, he’d sensed something different there. Something infinitely better. But he’d been away from Ellen for so many months, and he’d never expected someone else to be in his bed. Certainly not this woman. And from the moment he’d stretched out beside her, he’d had only one thing on his mind.
He saw her take another step forward and her hand accidentally tipped a bowl sitting beside the ewer on the next table. She grabbed for it swiftly, and the thing made no noise. It must have had a few drops of ale in the bottom, for he watched her raise her hand to her lips. Athol felt a tingling surge in his loins as her delicate tongue licked the drops from her finger.